I Show Not Your Face But Your Heart's Desire
by Diligent
Summary: -ONE Shot- Spellbinding, miraculous, poisonous. George Weasely is on the path to madness in front of the mirror of Erised. Can he be drawn back out? Inspired by the only fanart that has ever moved me. No romance, rated T for themes of death.


"He's still there?"

"Hasn't moved in hours, hasn't eaten in longer. I don't even want to think about how long it's been since he slept."

"I thought it was meant to be long gone anyway?"

"I don't know. Dumbledore never said…"

"What a surprise, _Dumbledore never said! _We really should stop being shocked at how little he let on, don't you reckon?"

"You be quiet, now's not the time."

The voices were familiar; dimly, he knew they were friendly. Another time, another place… he might have enjoyed their sound.

But now they were intruding.

Why were they there, behind him, whispering like thieves in the night, when everything he wanted was in front of him, so tantalizingly close? He could feel the tears, borne of frustration, anger and a terrible, excruciating sense of loss lurking just beneath the surface, but they didn't fall.

It had been a long time since George Weasley had cried. Not since the night it had happened, in fact. So miraculous, so welcome, but so frustrating! Infuriatingly so! He wanted to scream, rage and destroy, but he daren't lest the miracle desert him, and he be left alone once more.

Alone.

George Weasley had never been alone before. For so many years he had existed as a part of a whole, of something greater. He had never known the feeling that others spoke of, never known how it could feel to be unable to grasp onto another, to stop himself from sinking. But now he knew, oh yes, and he had found that alone…. He was not buoyant.

The voices continued, blurred and faint, but ever present and persistent, as though they were making an active attempt to force themselves into his mind.

"Much longer and we'll have to do something. Don't know if Molly'll hold up if he stays there."

He knew that voice, tired and ill sounding though it was. He hated it sounding like that.

"I know it's upsetting, but we don't know how much damage force could do. Dragging him away might seriously affect his mind."

This one, also familiar. Tired as well, but wise too, and so very young. How could someone sound so old and yet so young at the same time? He might have struggled with that question once, but now he knew the answer only too well.

"But we can't not do anything! You said it yourself, people have gone mad!"

This voice was angrier, but terribly familiar. It reminded him so starkly of what he had lost, and he wished with all his heart that it would not speak again.

"I know that! What I _don't_ know is what we should do!"

"So what? We leave him there and he goes insane? Or we drag him away and he goes catatonic? Wow, what a wonderful choice! I can really see why Dumbledore thought this thing was a good idea to keep around! FUCK!"

Sarcasm. The lowest form of wit. He could do so much better that that. He could have when he had been whole anyway… Now? Perhaps even sarcasm was beyond him. He could hear the voices growing louder. Arguing.

Why were they arguing? What could possibly be worth investing such emotion into, when the only thing that mattered in the entire world was just inches in front of his face? He shouted out mentally, begging the universe, whatever deities deigned to hear him, to grant him this one thing. He promised, childishly though he knew it was, that if it gave him this, he would never, ever ask for anything again. He would be content.

Nothing happened, as he knew it wouldn't. But the child inside him was bitterly disappointed anyway.

Suddenly that voice spoke again. The one he had asked so nicely to remain silent.

"No Harry! Enough is enough! I don't care if it does kill him, this is not the way I'm leaving him! This ends now."

Such anger, from one so small. He knew what it was talking about, and braced himself for the inevitable barrage of words he knew was about to assault him. They had come before. He had outlasted them. He would do so again.

But it wasn't words that touched him, it was hand. Small, warm, and oh so delicate, it rested on his shoulder. The voice spoke again. It still reminded him of the horror that had befallen him, but he no longer found himself reviled by it. It was alive with such raw emotion, that it cut through to his core, despite his apathetic state.

"Georgie?"

He didn't answer, but he was listening. He wondered if it knew.

"This isn't how it ends Georgie."

Perhaps it did.

"It can't be taken back, what's happened. You know that."

He remained silent, stationary. Did he know that? He would've a few days ago. The answer would have sprung from his lips in an instant. Now though…

"I'm not going to beg you Georgie. I'm not going to drag you away, kicking and screaming. I want you to come back because you want to. I know deep down, you do want to. And I know you feel so, so alone right now; but most of all I know that you aren't. Not really. You're part of a whole. Not just the whole that was you and Fred. The whole that was you and _us._ The Weasley's. We aren't a whole anymore, not without Fred, but without you it would be so, so much worse."

The voice was crying now. He hated it crying. He knew he was the cause of it's grief, and hated himself for it. Could he do it? Could he continue his vigil, knowing the torment he was putting the voice through? He though he knew the answer, but he didn't move. He couldn't. It was so captivating, so brutally and unapologetically wonderful, what was in front of him. How could he leave it, when it was all he wanted?

The hand had moved from his shoulder to his own palm, and he felt the pressure as it grasped him and pulled, ever so gently upwards. He felt himself standing, not quite believing that he was doing so. Muscles that had spent so many hours stationary screamed in agony, but the pain was nothing more than a splinter in a broken arm, a mild distraction from the greater, visceral horror that was his life.

They stood for a while, hand in hand, still staring at the miracle in front of him. So many seconds past until he felt another tiny pressure to his hand, and suddenly the miracle was in front of him no longer, but behind him, and he was walking away from it. Faces loomed at him, achingly familiar, with looks of such worry, such tenderness, such care, that before he knew it the tears that had lain dormant for so long came forth all at once, and he fell into friendly arms.

As he left the room, he heard the cacophony of breaking glass behind him, and he stiffened, briefly. The moment past however, and George Weasley walked from his miracle, safe in the knowledge that it would torment him no more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. I can't say I enjoyed writing it, because it made me quite depressed, but I am happy with how it turned out. In case you couldn't guess, the person talking to him is Ginny. I feel that she would be the one to remind him most of Fred, because her personality is quite like their's. Anyway have a read and sling me a review if you feel like it.

Cheers.


End file.
